


Taxi

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Whitechapel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a month on the job it should be easier, not harder, but for a moment Chandler feels accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxi

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 'traffic lights' at story_lottery.

Taxis are like confessionals. What goes on in the back seat stays in the back seat; conversations shared between passenger and driver are logged and then forgotten. Instead of absolution granted, the exchange of money severs the connections made within the safety of the black cab.

Chandler tries to count the number of times he's been a passenger in a taxi. He can't remember ever talking to the driver beyond giving his destination and murmuring a few courteous phrases. He doesn't like being a passenger. He prefers to drive. It's strange how a position of absolute control in a different context can be a position of servility.

He thinks he'd still prefer to be the driver in a taxi, but instead it's DS Miles who sits in the front. Not that there's anything servile about Miles. He probably doesn't know the meaning of the word. The thought is unworthy, and Chandler berates himself silently.

The glass divider between passenger and driver is drawn across to give the illusion of privacy, or perhaps it's just Miles' way of shutting him out. Even after a month on the job, Chandler is aware he still doesn't fit. Every time he thinks he's making headway with his team, they show him – or he shows himself – that he's different. It frustrates him as much as the dividing panel in the taxi frustrates him. Boxed in, cut off – this is not a new feeling for him, but it's one Chandler had hoped to overcome.

The worst thing about it is that he's aware of how far he's drifted from his old life, from the sterile world of the HQ his father once inhabited, and he has no idea what he's doing in this new setting. His old habits don't bring the usual results; the corporate phrases sound insulting and patronising. He's trying to adjust but he makes errors, and he's no longer sure where he's going or who he is.

He sits forward, the upholstered seat creaking as he moves. He hooks a manicured nail into the dimple in the panel and slides the glass to one side.

Miles tilts his head. "All right, sir?"

Chandler feels foolish. "I just wanted to talk a while."

"Talk." Miles makes a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle. "Captive audience, is that it?"

"If you'd prefer not to talk..."

"Jesus Christ. Say what you need to say."

There's an expectant pause. Chandler wants to fill the silence, but now he knows Miles is waiting for him to say something, he can't put his thoughts into words. Performance anxiety, he thinks with an edge of panic, and sits back, defeated.

Miles sighs and stares straight ahead. He does nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Perhaps he doesn't even realise there is an atmosphere, but after another six minutes of deafening silence, he turns on the radio.

A pop song blares out, the noise crushing. Chandler recoils on instinct, and Miles swears mildly and switches it off mid-tune.

"Can't stand that one," he says by way of explanation. "My lad's favourite. Plays it all the bloody time. Can't hear yourself think over a row like that."

Chandler nods. It's easier than saying thank you.

They settle into the new silence, which seems deeper than before. Further down the street there's some road works, the obligatory pile of dirt and a fenced-off hole in the ground, the tarmac lifted and shattered around it. The hole encroaches enough into the thoroughfare that the council have put a set of mini traffic lights either side. Chandler watches the change of the lights from green to red and back to green. There's no amber. His thoughts about the case merge with the flick of the lights: stop, go; bad, good.

He speaks his thoughts out loud. "Why do they do it? Commit murder. Why?"

Miles looks at him in the rear view mirror, his gaze expressionless. "Who, sir? Who are 'they'? They're not a faceless mass, you know. Murderers are everywhere. You. Me. Kent. McCormack. The top brass. We're all capable of it, and if you think otherwise you're a bloody fool."

"Yes." Chandler rubs at his temples. He's forgotten to bring his pot of tiger balm; he left it in his desk. He jerks his hand away and taps his knuckles against the window beside him. The glass is cool; September is almost ended, and autumn is easing its grip into the city. "Yes," he says again, slower this time. "I can see that."

"As for the why... well, it's opportunity, ain't it? All crimes are ninety-nine percent opportunity, just like adultery."

"That's a crime." Chandler is aware that his response is too quick. Guilt stabs at him, even though it's not his to carry. Force of habit, he supposes.

"Is it?"

Chandler rubs his head again, trying to erase the memory of his mother's tears, his father's excuses. "Sorry. No, it's not. Not anymore."

"Right you are, guv." Miles slants him another quick look then resumes staring out of the front window.

They watch the traffic lights. Red. Green. Stop. Go. Curious how there is no amber, no signal for the middle ground, for compromise. All or nothing: like the case, like his life. Once, a month ago, a lifetime ago, he'd inhabited the area of compromise. It was an art, really, the knowledge of juggling egos. How stupid of him to come to Whitechapel and think he could do the same with his team.

His father would have referred to Miles as a 'salt of the earth' type who 'called a spade a spade'. Chandler winces from the thought of his father's voice, jovial and rounded by brandy and a cigar. Miles is worth a dozen of his father. The knowledge is painful, but it also pleases him.

He must have sighed or made some other kind of noise, because Miles turns in his seat and glances back at him. "You all right, sir? Got one of your headaches?"

Chandler folds his hands together and places them in his lap. "Thank you, but I'm fine." He's surprised to find it's the truth. His headache lifted some time ago, and all his fussing is nothing more than habit. Unwilling to let go of their moment of connection, he adds, "I was just thinking."

"Dangerous, that is."

"Yes." Chandler almost chuckles. "I was thinking of my father. What was your father like?"

Miles seems startled by the question. "Me dad? He was a bastard, sir. A bully and a drunk."

Chandler exhales. "Yes. Mine, too."

"He's why I ended up on the force," Miles continues as if he hasn't heard him.

"Me, too."

They sit in silence for a while, but this time it doesn't feel awkward.

"Shit, it's cold," Miles says at last. He huddles into his coat.

"You could close the panel. It might be warmer," Chandler suggests.

"Yes, sir." Miles leaves the glass divider open, and after a few minutes, he turns on the radio once more.


End file.
